


Echoes of the Lean Times

by msk



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Complete, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John Doe Post Ep, Medical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:32:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1309939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msk/pseuds/msk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking back, the first sign of trouble was that Ichabod Crane fell asleep in the car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes of the Lean Times

Looking back, the first sign of trouble was that Ichabod Crane fell asleep in the car.   Mistrustful of motorized vehicles, he rarely relaxed let alone slept, too busy keeping a death grip on the door handle.   But he’d gone 48 hours without sleep, and you really couldn’t count being sedated into unconsciousness toward a sleep dept. So when he zonked out before they left the police station parking lot, she didn’t think much of it.  

She pulled into Arby’s drive through and ordered a bagful of sandwiches and french fries.   Abbie wasn’t sure how long it had been since either one of them had eaten anything substantial. She remembered inhaling a granola bar on the way to the hospital to question the boy. After that, things were far too hectic to feel hunger, but now that the crisis had passed, she was starving.

She glanced at Crane.  His chin rested on his chest, hands slack on his lap.   He didn’t stir at the gust of cold air as she rolled down her window to pay for the food or at the loud blast of a nearby car horn in the parking lot.   Abbie felt bone tired herself, and unlike Crane, she hadn’t been infected with Thomas’s disease.  

“You earned that nap fair and square,” she said softly, pulling out into traffic.

Twenty minutes later, Abbie pulled up to the cabin. “Crane,” she said, nudging his shoulder, “we’re here.” He slumped against the door, his low groan the only evidence that this wasn’t one of those movies where the supposedly sleeping person turns out to be dead.

“Wake up.” She gave his arm a firm shake. “You’re home.”

He groaned again, but didn’t move.

“What the hell,” she muttered, and climbed out of the car.  She had to stop Crane from spilling out onto the ground when she opened the passenger door, bracing him with a hand to his shoulder.   He woke, startled by nearly falling, hands scrambling for something to grab onto, which turned out to be her arm.

“Lieutenant, I must apologize.” He blinked and released his grip. “I must have been more fatigued than I realized.” He unfolded himself from the passenger seat. Normally, this was a graceful stork-like motion, but today his movements were ungainly and stiff.

“You went through a lot today.” She reached back into the car for the Arby’s bag. “Let’s get inside and have something to eat.”

“When did you acquire food?” he asked, running a hand over his face.

“You slept through the drive-through.”

“Sorry to have missed that.”

They walked to the cabin. Crane stumbled as he climbed the stairs, grabbing the handrail to keep from falling.

She took his arm when he reached the top step. “You okay?” she asked. She felt his body sway slightly.

“Of course,” he answered, but she shot him a concerned look as she unlocked the door.

Crane struggled out of his coat, dropped it on the back of the sofa. He crossed to the table and lowered himself into a chair, resting his head on folded arms. Abbie deposited the bag of food on the table and began to gather up the items left strewn on the table when she got the call about the boy two days ago.  

She smiled, remembering his reaction to them. She hoped to bring him slowly into the 21st century, but he was decidedly resistant to suggestions about clothing. Personal grooming seemed like a safe way to break the ice.  He had the whole ‘Princess-Bride-swashbuckling-damn-good-looking’ thing making it impossible for him to ever blend in completely, but he needed to fit in better.

She took a couple of bottles of water out of the refrigerator and set them on the table. “Come on, eat something,” she said as she removed the food from the bag.   When he didn’t respond, she shook his shoulder. He raised his head, eyes bleary and began to unwrap one of the sandwiches.

“You’re scaring me, Crane. I’ve never seen you so out of it.” She took a bite out of her sandwich, which was now cold and a little soggy. She was so hungry, it tasted like heaven.

“I’m simply tired,” he said. “And my head aches. Please do not concern yourself.  I’m sure I’ll be fine after a night’s rest."

“I’ll bet Corbin has something in the medicine cabinet for headache.” She rose from the table. She returned with a bottle of aspirin, shook two pills onto her palm and handed them to Crane. “Swallow these fast with water. Don’t let them stay in your mouth—“ Crane winced as he took too long to drink the water. “—they taste terrible.”

“Quite.” Crane was quiet while they ate, seeming not to have the energy to do more than chew.   Abbie hated to admit it, but she missed his running commentary on the various ways dining had changed - and not for the better - in the last 250 years.  

When they finished, Abbie gathered up the wrappers and stuffed them into the paper sack. She dropped the bag into the garbage and turned to Crane. His head was bowed as if he was praying. She suspected he’d fallen asleep again. “I think I should stay here tonight.”

He raised his head immediately, proving her wrong. “Absolutely not!” he said. Pushing himself out of the chair he briefly squeezed his eyes shut.   “You’ve gone as long as I have without rest. You need to sleep in your own bed tonight. I will be fine.”

She gave him a long look.   Truth be told, she craved her bed and didn’t relish the idea of a night spent on Corbin’s lumpy sofa. “Okay. But none of that early to rise stuff.   I want you to sleep in.   I’ll stop by in the afternoon to check on you.”

 

XOXOXOXOXOX

 

She woke to bright sun slanting through the blinds.   She’d allowed herself a bit of what she’d bestowed on Crane and slept in. As she swung her legs off the bed and stretched, Abbie felt almost normal.  

Showered and dressed, she grabbed her keys and headed out. It felt strange not to be picking Crane up on her way into work.   Craving coffee, she swung through Starbucks and treated herself to something big and sweet and ridiculously expensive. Crane would have a burst a blood vessel if he glimpsed the receipt, which was why she’d taken to pocketing them immediately.

“Mills!”

No matter how entitled she felt to stroll in to work at 9:20, Abbie froze in her tracks when Captain Irving leaned into the hallway and called her name. She turned on her heel and followed him into the office.

“Where’s Crane?” he asked, shutting the door after her.

“He was pretty ragged after the last couple of days. He needed to rest.”

“Just as well,” Irving said. “I wanted to talk to you first. I had a call from Parsons. The CDC is interested in Crane.”

“God knows he’s plenty interesting.”

“So far, his lack of a green card or birth certificate doesn’t seem to be what they’re concerned about. But they were very interested in his blood panels.”

“What did they show?”

“They wanted to talk to Crane directly.   Probably against HIPAA regulations since it’s not part of an active investigation.  But Parsons told me about the boy’s blood work and how freaky it was. No inoculations.  None of the markers expected in someone from our time. I can only imagine what Crane’s panels looked like. They want to see him and I doubt _that’s_ a good idea. ”

“God no. Does he have to see them? I mean, can they force him to come in?”

“I didn’t get that impression.   There is no current health threat.   All the people who were affected have made complete recoveries. Crane’s a private citizen as far as they know. I’m not sure of the legal status of a formerly dead Revolutionary War English turncoat, but my new motto is what people don’t know won’t hurt them. Or us.”

“Why don’t you tell them that he’ll follow up with his own doctor,” she suggested.

“I could try. Let’s hope they don’t press me for the doctor’s name.”

Abbie nodded. “If it’s alright, I was going to leave early this afternoon so I can check on Crane. I’ll talk to him about this CDC thing.”

“Go ahead,” Irving agreed. “You earned it over the last few days.”

Abbie spend most of the day working on the paperwork from the Roanoke case.   With all her law enforcement training, who would have dreamt that the creative writing course she’d taken at the community college would be so useful.  She certainly couldn’t put the truth in her reports.   The world wasn’t ready for that. They’d had a taste of how the public would handle tribulations with this case

After several hours of carefully edited truth and some borderline fiction, Abbie shut down her computer and grabbed her jacket. They’d concentrated on personal items when Crane moved into the cabin, but there wasn’t much there to eat, so she stopped by the supermarket for some supplies.  

As she drove, Abbie wondered if Crane had actually slept in. She unpacked the car, carried the grocery bags up to the porch and knocked on the front door. All was quiet inside.  

“Crane, I’m coming in,” she called out. She brought in the groceries, set them on the table.   Crane would likely grouse that she hadn’t permitted him to carry them in.   He felt strongly about stuff like that.

The bedroom door was partially open and as she moved closer, she saw him. “Oh God,” she muttered.

Crane was stretched across the bed, still in his clothes, his booted feet hanging off the mattress. It looked less like he’d laid down to rest, and more like he’d passed out cold.

“Crane,” she said as she touched his shoulder. “Are you okay?”   He didn’t respond so she shook his arm. “C’mon, wake up.”

Gradually, Crane began to stir, eyes fluttering open as he rolled onto his back. His shirt was half untied and he had an impression on his cheek from the quilt.  “Miss Mills, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, sitting up and pushing the hair from his face. “What time is it?”

“It’s almost four in the afternoon.” She lifted his chin so she could get a good look at him.   His eyes still seemed groggy, and he looked pale.   Well, paler than usual.     “Have you been sleeping all this time?”

“I think I must have been.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I recall eating with you last night, and saying goodnight. After you left, I came in here to prepare for bed. I remember nothing after that.”

“How do you feel? Does your head still hurt?”

“Tired, but only a little more than usual.   The headache is not as bad as last night.”

Abbie frowned. “I’m worried about you, Crane. I think we need to get you checked out by a doctor.”

“Was I not ‘checked out’ out by a great many doctors in the hospital?”

“Well, it turns out the CDC has lots of questions about you.  I don’t know if you were conscious when they did this, but they took a small amount of your blood to test it.”

“I don’t remember it. Why would they do that?”

“Doctors can tell a lot about your health from your blood. We don’t know what they found out, but it’s a safe bet that your results look very different from someone born in our time. The CDC wants you to go back to the hospital.”

“Absolutely not.” Crane stood up, wavered a little, but steadied himself. His expression was resolute.

“You’re right,” she conceded. “We can’t allow them to get their hands on you.”

“Then we are agreed,” he said, his eyes locked with hers. Finally, he broke the gaze and looked down, fingering the ties on his shirt. “I must wash. My clothes are threatening to stand up and walk about on their own.”

She smiled at the ease with which he’d changed the subject. “Let’s see if we can find something for you to wear while we wash them.”

The closet yielded a worn plaid cotton bathrobe and some old flannel shirts. They appeared to have been laundered, but she wasn’t sure how Crane would feel about wearing Corbin’s old clothes.  

“Miss Mills. What manner of cloth is this?” Crane held up a gray sweatshirt he’d found in the dresser.

“Oh, Crane, you’re in for a treat,” she said, taking it from him. “This is called ‘fleece’ and you will not believe how comfy it is.” The sweatshirt still bore its price tag as did the matching sweatpants she pulled from the dresser. She tried not to think of Corbin buying them and placing them in the drawer for the future.   “And they’re new.”

She retrieved the toiletries they’d bought days ago and explained how to use some of the items he was unfamiliar with. God only knew what people used to wash their hair in Crane’s time. She’d carefully chosen unscented products after he’d complained that the soap in the motel smelled like a “bawdy house.”  

As she put the groceries away, Abbie listened for the sound of anything or anyone falling in the bathroom. A tub bath would have been safer, but the cabin had only a shower stall. She hoped that she wouldn’t need to pick a wet, unconscious Crane up off the tile floor.

Finally, the sound of running water ceased. Abbie had assembled the ingredients for a simple meal when Crane came into the kitchen, clad in the sweats. They hung on his thin frame, but were long enough to cover his wrists and ankles. His wet hair was loose around his face.

“I must admit, these are the softest garments I’ve ever worn,” he said. “They do seem rather…informal, though. Do people wear these in public?”

“You would be amazed. I’ll take you to Walmart some day when you’re feeling stronger. Hungry?”

“I’m famished. What are you preparing?”

“Comfort food to go with your comfort clothes,” she said. “Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.”

Crane sat at the table watching her as she cooked.   He was more awake this afternoon, but he clearly wasn’t his inquisitive self. Normally, he’d be standing over her asking her how the stove top worked, and reminding her that in his day, people didn’t eat tomatoes because they considered them inedible.   Tonight, he just didn’t seem to have the energy.

They were both far too hungry to chat much over dinner.   Abbie had more to say on the subject of medical care, but she wanted to make sure Crane got some food in him since he’d slept through breakfast and lunch. She waited until he’d finished two sandwiches and a couple of bowls of soup before she spoke.

“I know you think I’m overreacting, Crane” she said as she cleared the table, “but we need to get you checked out. Everyone else who was infected recovered completely. This exhaustion isn’t normal.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he said. “Though I think it is misplaced.”

“Then do it for me even if you don’t think it necessary   I can’t bear the thought of you passed out and unable to protect yourself. Most of all, I need you to be in fighting form.”

He looked down at his hands, folded on the table.   When he raised his eyes to meet hers, his smile was rueful.

“It appears I can refuse you nothing, Miss Mills.”

XOXOXOXOXOX

“Something is wrong with Crane.”

“What was your first clue?” Jenny asked, smiling over the top of her coffee cup. They were sitting in the common room at Tarrytown Psychiatric.   They had the room to themselves, the other patients outside in the fresh air, or in therapy.   Jenny was due to be released in a matter of weeks, and had more control over her day to day schedule as part of the “step-down” process.

Jenny caught the look on her sister’s face. “Oh, you’re serious. Sorry. What’s wrong with the Duke of Tall?”

“We had a case. I don’t know if you saw the news reports about the missing boy or the quarantine at the hospital.”

Jenny shook her head. “Our access to the news is sketchy. It’s like the old Soviet Bloc in here.”

Abbie told her about the case and how Crane and the others were infected.   “Everyone else recovered completely, and Crane seemed better at first. But he was completely knocked out for close to twenty four hours. Something’s not right.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Jenny said. “I really am, but what do you want me to do about it?”

Abbie took a sip of her coffee, trying to calm herself before responding. Jenny was like a porcupine, protecting herself from every perceived attack. How long would it be before Abbie could approach without being pierced?

“The CDC wants him. We can’t let that happen. If we’re supposed to fight this…whatever the hell it is, he can’t be stuck in some hospital while they poke and prod his 260 year old body trying to figure out why his blood work looks the way it does.   He needs help and I have a very short list of people I can go to.”

“And I made the cut! Bet I was last on the list.”  A few dozen quills found their mark.

“I know you want to punish me, and I understand, I do. But I need your help, Jenny. Crane needs your help.”

Jenny set her coffee cup down and sat back in her chair, arms folded. “What do you need?”

“We need a doctor we can trust. I know it’s a long shot, but I figured you moved in some pretty weird circles over the last few years.   I hoped maybe you knew someone.”

“Weird circles is putting it mildly,” Jenny said, with a wicked smile.   “As it happens, I might know someone who can help you.”

“Do I want to know how you came in contact with this person?”

“It’s one of the few stories I’d tell you,” Jenny said. She took a sip of her coffee.   “A few years ago, Corbin sent me to pick up an artifact from this forensic anthropologist at Yale.   It was a statue of a minor god that had been found in a burial chamber in Sumeria and he wanted it—I don’t even remember why.   The remains found with the statue were being carbon-dated at Yale. Well, I’d had a little trouble earlier that day—“

“Trouble?”

“A fight over something else on Corbin’s shopping list.   The seller tried to stiff me and things got a little physical. The doc noticed blood on my sleeve. Turns out she used to be an emergency room physician who got interested in anthropology and changed fields. She patched me up and didn’t ask questions which made her okay in my book. She and Corbin went way back.”

“Does she still practice medicine?”

“She told me she keeps her credentials up to date. I think she volunteers somewhere.”

“Okay. Do you think she’ll accept Crane for who and what he is?”

“I don’t know about that. It’s a pretty wild story to buy. I’m not sure I believe it and I’m in a mental hospital. But for a friend of Corbin? She’ll help you and she’ll keep it to herself.   Even if she thinks he’s nuts. Give me your cellphone.”

At Abbie’s hesitation, she held out her hand. “They don’t let me have one in here, and people jump to conclusions when the caller ID says “Tarrytown Psychiatric,” Jenny said, nodding at the pay phone on the wall. Abbie handed over the phone. “Let’s go back to my room—I have her number somewhere.”

XOXOXOXOXOX

If driving on local roads had Crane gripping the door handle, flying along I95 found him fully prepared for imminent impact.   Though he tried to be casual about it, Abbie could tell that his feet were braced against the floorboards and both hands were holding onto something.   At least, he hadn’t fallen asleep.

They were headed to New Haven to meet with Dr. Catherine Verano. Once Jenny had made the introduction over the phone, it fell to Abbie to fill the doctor in on the details of Crane’s life and his current symptoms. The doctor had taken the information with what Abbie thought was a healthy amount of skepticism.  

Skeptical or not, Dr. Verano agreed to see them at a friend’s medical practice on Sunday when the office would be free.   She had sent Crane for a chest xray and ordered blood and urine tests at a large laboratory chain. The trip to the lab had been a bit awkward, with Abbie trying to explain what Crane needed to do regarding the little plastic cup.   He managed the blood draw like a trooper, but then again this was a man who had taken a broad ax to the chest.

“Is it necessary to drive this vehicle as if the Horseman of Death were chasing us?” he asked as Abbie pulled around a car piloted by a little old man wearing a hat. As a rule, hat-wearing little old men drove too slowly. “I’m driving the speed limit,” she answered. Crane shot her a sour look. “Okay. Maybe a little bit above the speed limit. But we don’t want to be late.”

“Would it not be better to arrive in one piece?” Crane’s voice had an edge that reminded her of their first car ride together. That time he’d been wearing handcuffs.

“You have to relax. Are you nervous about this appointment?” She glanced in his direction.  “I mean seeing a woman doctor?”

“I’ve been attended to by women—nurses--in battlefield hospitals. I don’t imagine this will differ much. To be honest, I preferred the nurses over the doctors. They were far more gentle.”

The GPS voice piped up to indicate their exit was next. As they left the highway and made their way on city streets, Crane gazed out the window at the modern buildings. “I spent some time at Yale College when I first came to the colonies. The town certainly did not look like this.”

She followed the turns dictated by the GPS.   They came upon the New Haven Green, busy with people enjoying the sunshine on a Sunday morning.  “Part of this green was taken up by a cemetery in my day. And now it appears to be a place where people toss around brightly colored disks.”

They approached the university where the buildings were older, made of stone in soft russet and brown shades. Gargoyles scowled down, guarding the roofs. The address Dr. Verano had given them was at the edge of the college area.

She had given Abbie instructions to park in garage down the block from the office where they were to meet. As they walked to the appointment, Crane alternated between clenching his hands into fists and flexing his fingers. Abbie reached out and took one hand, stopping its anxious motion.  

“We’ll get you well again, Crane.”

“I feel fine,” he protested. “I’m afraid this will be a waste of time for the doctor.”

“I know you feel better. But I’m worried about the next time you come in contact with an illness. This one knocked you down pretty hard.”

He had improved over the week since the Roanoke case had been resolved.   Abbie wasn’t sure whether his energy had returned, or if he was better able to mask his exhaustion. She suspected it was a little of both.

They arrived at a modern medical building which contrasted starkly with the time-burnished stone structures around it.   A small woman in a lab coat was waiting in the lobby. She opened the door for them, introducing herself as Dr. Verano.   The expression on her face when she saw Crane that of a little girl on Christmas morning who’d just unwrapped a much longed-for EZ Bake Oven. She was tiny—even by Abbie’s standard. With her short gray hair and slim build, she resembled a middle-aged adolescent boy.

“I can’t express what a thrill it is to meet you,” she said, vigorously shaking Crane’s hand.   “My career has been spent making suppositions based on artifacts and remains. I’ve never had the opportunity to interview a living subject.”

“The honor is mine, dear lady.” Crane bowed slightly at the waist.

“Jenny mentioned that you knew Sheriff Corbin,” Abbie said as Dr. Verano shook her hand. “He was my partner.”

“August. Oh August,” Dr. Verano said, her voice catching. “We were friends for more than 20 years.” She pressed the elevator call button.   “I was so sorry to hear of his death.”

Dr. Verano’s gaze flicked over Crane every few seconds during the ride up in the elevator, as if she were afraid he’d vanish before her eyes. They exited and walked a short distance through a darkened hall to the one office that was illuminated.  

“Your test results were unusual to say the least,” the doctor said as she unlocked the door. “I had my doubts about what Lieutenant Mills told me, but there was no other way to fully explain the results.” They entered a waiting room. “If you’ll come with me, Mr. Crane, we can begin the examination.”

“I’ll be right here, Crane,” Abbie said.

“No,” he said. “I’d rather you came along, if you don’t mind.”

Abbie nodded. He had to be pretty rattled if he wanted her to be present at something so personal. They followed the doctor into an examining room.  

“Please remove your shirt, socks and boots. You can leave the trousers.   I’ll be back in a moment.”

Crane slid out of his coat. Abbie turned to study a poster showing diagrams of the human heart with plaque in all the wrong places.   She listened to the sound of Crane placing his boots on the floor, the rustle of fabric as he took off his shirt.   After a minute or two, the doctor knocked on the door.

Dr. Verano returned and Abbie turned back, catching sight of Crane, barefoot and shirtless.   Abbie remembered the first time she’d seen him without his shirt in the shaman’s hut. With his broad shoulders and that loose shirt, she hadn’t realized Crane was so skinny.   Her senses had been overwhelmed that day and it had barely registered, but today, she noted again how alarmingly thin he was, each rib clearly defined.

“Please step on the scale,” Dr. Verano said, indicating the device, which was a good thing, since Crane probably wouldn’t have picked it out if his life depended on it. Measuring his height, the petite doctor had to stand on a step stool to see where the top of Crane’s head registered on the ruler. They moved toward the examination table.

Crane stood, head bowed, arms held out slightly at his sides as the doctor inspected his skin, noting the many and varied scars healed hundreds of years ago.  He looked like a statue of a warrior, beautiful and noble.  

She traced the large scar on his chest. “This was the fatal wound, was it not?”   Crane nodded solemnly. She lifted each hand, studying the nails, turning them over to look at his palms. “This bruise appears fairly recent,” Dr. Verano said, touching a darkened area on his arm.   “How did you get it?”

“I had a scuffle with a Hessian.”

“In the past? I mean before you died?” she asked.

“No. A fortnight ago,” Crane replied. The poor woman looked confused. Welcome to my world, Abbie thought.

The doctor moved through the typical aspects of a physical—temperature, blood pressure, eye check, pulse. She carefully listened to his chest sounds and heartbeat.   She seemed to know intuitively that she needed to walk Crane through the process, explaining briefly what she was doing and why.   If Crane was uncomfortable with any of it, Abbie couldn’t tell, even when the doctor had him recline so she could palpate his abdomen.  

“You can dress now,” she said, finally. “I have a hypothesis as to what caused your symptoms, but I’d like to get a little more background information first.” She left, telling them she would be in the office across the hall.

XOXOXOXOXOX

“Mr. Crane, for a man who died 232 years ago, I must say, overall, you appear to be in good shape.   I think I may be the first doctor in history to utter that sentence.” She laughed. “That said, I have a few concerns. You are underweight. Not dangerously so, but I want to make sure you’re eating enough.”

“I assure you, Doctor, I am not lacking in sustenance. I take every advantage of the rich abundance of food choices available now.”

Abbie couldn’t tell if the doctor believed him. “It’s true. He eats twice what I do. Three times on a good day,” she offered as confirmation.

“I have always been thin,” Crane said. “Even as a boy.”

“That may be your natural state and perfectly healthy for you.   It explains a few things, actually.  There were indications in the blood work of malnutrition, but not in my physical exam, apart from your general thinness.   Muscle tone, condition of skin, hair and nails—all excellent. But, I can see why the CDC was concerned with your blood panels.”

“Because my blood is different from yours,” Crane offered.

“The lack of immunizations and antibodies common to present day people, of course, would set off flares. But your blood work shows anemia, which in a male subject generally points to internal bleeding. That would likely be what caused their concern.”

“Do you think Crane is bleeding?” Abbie asked.

“Not necessarily. We can do some further testing, but I think the answer is in Mr. Crane’s more distant past. I’d like to walk through that with you.”

“If you think it would be valuable,” Crane said, steepling his long fingers as he sat back in his chair.

“I do.   We have historical accounts of how people lived in that period, but a firsthand account—that is beyond an anthropologist’s wildest dream.   Lieutenant Mills said you fought under George Washington. Tell me about that.”

“As you wish,” Crane said. “I came to fight under General Washington in 1772. Over the next nine years, I was sent on numerous missions, some of them clandestine.   I saw my share of battle, serving in the 37th Regiment under Colonel Jonathan Brewer.”

“The life of a soldier was hard,” Dr. Verano said. “It still is, of course, but in your day, much more so.”

“It was war. We were constantly on the move. Marching 30 miles in a day was not unusual. Rations were sometimes short. War is not easy, Doctor,” Crane said, an edge in his voice. “It isn’t meant to be.”

“Were you with Washington at Valley Forge?” Dr. Verano persisted.

Crane nodded. “I was. You are acquainted with the accounts of that winter?”

“The historical records are very detailed, Mr. Crane.   They tell that supplies were inadequate and illness was rampant. Further, that during the worst of it, more than two thousand men died from dysentery, typhus and other diseases, exacerbated by starvation.”

“Conditions improved once spring came, but that winter was the harshest thing most of us had ever experienced,” Crane said.  “We lived on ‘firecakes’ and I cannot begin to describe how dreadful they were—flour and water cooked on a hot stone.   Actually hot stones would have tasted better.”

“So, safe to say you got very little protein…meat or shellfish, during that period.”

“True.    We had some beans, occasionally root vegetables.  I can hardly complain, though.   A great many men suffered far worse than I did.   I had a good coat and boots. My wife had sent me off with warm stockings. Many of the men were inadequately clothed.  As an officer, I received a greater share of the rations.” Crane shook his head as if to clear the memory. When he spoke again, his voice was choked with emotion. “So many were starving, so many were sick and dying. I have seldom felt so powerless.”

Abbie tried to picture him shivering in the cold in spite of his coat, receiving his meager rations and watching others receive less. She knew intuitively what Crane would have done under those circumstances.

“Crane,” Abbie said, turning to look into his eyes.  “You shared your rations, didn’t you?”

He cleared his throat, shifted in his chair. “I was by no means the only officer who did so.” At her look, he went on with a smile, “I shared my food. The rum I kept for myself. And good Barbadian rum it was.”

“I guess we know where your priorities were,” Abbie said, glad for a break in the grim discussion.

“As you said, when spring came conditions improved,” Dr. Verano said. “But that was not the last time you went hungry, was it?”

Crane shook his head. “There were times in the intervening years when food was scarce, when we were cut off from supplies.” He was clearly growing frustrated at the discussion. “You said you had a hypothesis.”

“Ah, yes. I believe that during that winter, you, along with the rest of the men suffered serious health issues due to the scarcity of food.   You had very little access to iron rich food, so you became anemic.   Many other nutrients were missing from your diet for extended periods.   I believe that you never completely made up those deficits, even when you had better access to food.   I’m sure you were run down and tired a lot of the time. Got sick a lot? Colds, stomach ailments?”

“Every man I knew was tired and often sick.”

“I think you became accustomed to feeling tired.  You pushed through your exhaustion and did what you had to do. After a while, that felt normal to you. “

“Crane had been very active in the time I’ve known him,” Abbie said. “He seems pretty strong.”   She didn’t think the doctor could handle the details of that activity, so she kept the digging of graves and blowing up of evil witches to herself.  

“The effects were probably subtle under most circumstances.   But when his system was challenged by that recent illness, those limited stores of energy were depleted and Mr. Crane’s body just shut down.”

“Could that happen again?” Crane asked.

“I think you are vulnerable to a similar reaction if you were to contract another illness. That’s why we need to get started on a plan of action.”

“What do you propose?” he asked.

“I’ve consulted with a nutritionist based on your blood work.   She came up with a protocol of foods and dietary supplements that will fill in the gaps. I believe that if we address those deficits, you’ll be able to withstand infections and more importantly, feel better and have more energy.”

She handed Crane a sheet of paper. Abbie leaned over to see the recommendations. First on the list was beef, which appeared to please Crane.   “This is quite acceptable.” he said

“I’d also like to start a schedule of immunizations, but I think we need to approach that carefully so we don’t overwhelm your system. We can rely on ‘herd immunity’ for the meantime.” At Crane’s puzzled look, she explained. “With a large percentage of the U.S. population immunized, the diseases become rare, thereby reducing your chances of becoming ill.   But I do want you vaccinated against influenza. That is quite prevalent and could be dangerous for you.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Crane said, standing. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“I should be thanking you,” Dr. Verano said. “This has truly been a remarkable experience, to use both of my passions to solve a problem.   Let me know if you have any issues following the protocol.   We should repeat the blood work in a month.”

XOXOXOXOXOX

As she pulled up to the cabin, she spotted Crane in the distance, walking along the curve of the lake. The breeze ruffled his hair and he looked relaxed and loose-limbed, with none of his normal military bearing.   He stooped, picking up a stone which he expertly skipped across the water. Abbie smiled in delight, seeing him so at ease.

She climbed the steps and waited for him on the porch. “Out exploring?” she asked when he drew near.

“It’s such a lovely evening,” he said. “I thought I’d amble along the lake shore before supper.”

“You have mail,” she said, waving the envelope.

“Ah, a missive from the good doctor,” he said as he slipped a finger under the flap. He pulled out the contents and held them so he and Abbie could view them together.

It had been five weeks since Crane had seen Dr. Verano and he’d done his best to follow the instructions.   The diet had been easy, requiring only minor adjustments in his normal food choices. The supplements had been harder—Crane had disliked the pills, complaining that they were large and difficult to swallow.   He’d gone for follow up blood work at the one month mark.

“This is wonderful,” she said. “Your iron levels are normal. Your other results are all improved.”

“She still wants me to take those enormous pills. Well, I suppose I can manage.”

“How do you feel?”

“Much improved, I must admit. I confess to having reservations about the doctor’s hypothesis, but I can’t deny that I feel better than I have in a very long time.”

“We should celebrate,” Abbie said. “Let’s go get some dinner.”

“A splendid idea,” he agreed, smiling down at her.   “I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more.”

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this story is this photo: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/22447698115933577/
> 
> Huge thanks to my partner in crime, Donna for her support, beta and great ideas. And thanks to Maybe Amanda for insightful and incisive beta.


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